Years ago I titled this blog Each Day is a Journey. I was fearless of being judged for being new-agey or pseudo-spiritual. Or fully spiritual. I now drown in fear of all kinds. But still, I paddle along, with dog like enthusiasm. The only kind of enthusiasm worth having.
Each day. I make the same mistakes always. Doubting what I have learned to be good. I repeat my ignorance perfectly. Each day is a chance to rediscover the joy of epiphany. I often bemoan that each morning is like a clean slate, that I forget any lessons I have so painstakingly learned, and must learn them anew. I exaggerate of course. I have changed in many good ways. However, to doubt the value of meeting with others, of feeling a sense of togetherness, of leaving the house instead of being alone with Netflix. I doubt life every day. Unannounced to myself, I doubt the value of living every day. I used to very explicitly, so I suppose this is just the faded remnant of that time, that way of viewing life. But at the core, that’s what it is. It is a question of is this worth it? can’t I just lay here and moan?
My hatred of joy runs deep. So does my love of it. I am between a rock and a single feather, yet I struggle.
Each day is a journey where we face lies. An esoteric detective, brushing dust along walls searching for fingerprints, was god here?